


Blame it on the Night

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Humor, M/M, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blame it on the moon, or the alcohol, or the Bossa Nova -- but more importantly, make sure there's no evidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to: Unovis and Tehomet; Britpicking thanks to Tehomet

Lestrade blamed it on battle fatigue; the case had gone on too long, and the relief, when it was finally over, had gone to their heads. They were all exhausted, which is no doubt why Watson fell over on him in the back seat of the car, and why he didn't push him away. Watson faceplanted in his lap should set off all sorts of alarms, but it felt, well, nice. Meanwhile Sherlock Fucking Holmes's battery still hadn't bloody run down and he was giving a disquisition on the whole case from the front seat, outlining in detail everything he, Lestrade, had done wrong. All the way to Baker Street. Lestrade was ready to deck the smug bastard when they finally got to the flat, but then Watson smiled up at him sleepily and instead he waved the car away, telling the concerned sergeant he'd take a taxi home later. Post-case fatigue had weakened his common sense. John Watson leaning against him, warm and solid and sleepy, shattered and scattered it like safety glass on pavement.

Sherlock blamed it on the cold. Getting out of the car at Baker Street was like stepping from an oven into a deep freeze, and the three of them drew together as if magnetized. Sherlock's hands were clumsy from the cold, and his keys fell from his gloved hands when he tried the door. He and Lestrade both bent to retrieve them and they ended up keyless and holding hands. John giggled, which wasn't surprising, but that made Lestrade giggle, which _was_ , and the two of them carried on in an utterly childish fashion while Sherlock, apparently the only adult present, searched for the key in the slush. Then he slipped on the ice, catching John's sleeve as he fell; John in turn flailed and knocked down Lestrade, so they ended up sprawled together on the pavement, Sherlock unfortunately caught between two lunatics who thought dirty snowballs were an appropriate response to the situation. They weren't even drunk -- then. Mrs Hudson had opened the door, wondering what in the world grown men were doing giggling on her doorstep, and they sobered enough to stagger into the hallway, clutching each other in interesting ways. "I'll just make some hot toddies," Mrs Hudson said, shooing them upstairs and shutting the door against the cold... It was warm in here, however. Sherlock was on his back on the carpet and he could feel air on his privates. Interesting. His hand, exploring, landed on warm skin. Buttocks, by the feel. Beside him on the floor, Lestrade grunted. _Oh_. Even _more_ interesting.

John blamed it on Sherlock, who knew exactly where Darby 'D-Dawg' Dobbs had planted his erstwhile partner's body long before he, Sherlock, deigned to hint at it, and on Lestrade, who knew Sherlock knew, but was too proud to ask. John, who knew Sherlock knew the answer and that Lestrade knew he knew, wondered when the two of them were going to grow up. It didn't look as if it would happen anytime soon, and most definitely not tonight. Lestrade had found Sherlock's cupboard full of disguises and they were wrestling over a Dolly Parton wig. And how had they come to be in Sherlock's bedroom, anyway?

Lestrade blinked up at Sherlock's face. He was pretty sure Sherlock had just kissed him. Sherlock had such beautiful shoulders -- how had never noticed? He was pretty sure it was because he'd never seen Sherlock naked before. He himself was fully dressed. In a -- he craned his neck to look. A dress. Oh. _Fuck_. Well, it wasn't his fault Sherlock's landlady fixed such a mean toddy. Of course, there had also been Scotch. And rum. And -- whatever it was they'd found under the kitchen sink. And yes! Sherlock had just kissed him. And was kissing him again. And someone was -- snoring? He craned his neck to look. John. Asleep? Well, it wasn't surprising, was it? Not after what they'd --Something cold touched his face. His hand flew up to close around -- a phone. Sherlock kissed him again and the phone fell from Lestrade's fingers, forgotten. There was nothing in the world but Sherlock's lips on his. _Oh_. That tongue that tongue was going places. _Oh, yeah_.

Sherlock was worried about John. Where had he gone? Oh yes. Lestrade's fault, entirely. Lestrade had rolled over into Sherlock, and Sherlock had rolled over into John, and John had rolled over the edge of the bed onto the floor, and he should have paid more attention, but Lestrade was glaring at him like a deranged doll (he remembered the lipstick, because he remembered Lestrade's lips, oh god _yes_ , his lips, but who had painted the red hearts on his cheeks?) _That dress is just_ you, _darling,_ he said, and Lestrade looked down. Shocked, didn't remember putting it on at all. _I believe it's yours, Sherlock_ \-- good save, but unnecessarily nasty tone. As if Sherlock had picked it out, which he hadn't. He twanged Lestrade's straps, which made the man _furious_. Lestrade grabbed front of the dress with both hands and ripped the flimsy stuff right down the front like a diva of the first water. Rendered the garment quite unwearable. No matter. Lestrade was now naked. Again. Sherlock smiled. And pounced. A small object slid from the pillows to clatter unnoticed on the floor.

John woke up and wondered why he was on the floor instead of on the bed. He felt obscurely that this was Sherlock's fault. He flopped over on his back and squinted. The bed was moving and -- ah. Sherlock and Lestrade were going at it, again. So why was he was on the floor instead of on the bed? He hauled himself up, and clung to the edge of the bed by the sheet, feeling like a sailor hanging onto a ship pitching on the high seas. The two pirates on the bed stopped what they were doing and stared at him. John let go of the sheet and fell back on the floor, drowning in self-pity and possibly too much rum. His elbow bumped something metallic and sent it spinning and he trapped it under his hand. His phone. Presently, a strong arm appeared over the edge of the bed and he was dragged up to safety. Of sorts. What Lestrade and Sherlock were doing to him made his toes curl, and he wondered if one _could_ be licked to death. He was more than willing to find out.

Lestrade blamed the moonlight shimmering through the curtains to illuminate Sherlock like a delinquent angel who had tumbled down into his arms. John blamed Sherlock's magic cupboard that inexplicably yielded up a ukulele. Sherlock blamed Lestrade's wicked, beautiful mouth and John's delicious, wicked sense of humour working in tandem to send him riding the most intense waves of pleasure and hilarity he'd ever experienced.

He'd always known the ukulele would come in handy one day.

******

"This is all my fault," Lestrade said, holding a bag of ice to his forehead. "I should have just sent you two home. I am--" there was a pause while he buried his face in the ice bag, "I am an officer of the law and a representative of the Crown and should set-- set-- I think I'm going to throw up in your sink."

"Be my guest." Sherlock scowled into his cup. "My experiment is ruined in any case."

"Experiment? In the sink? What is it?"

John was holding his head in his hands. "Maggots," he said from between his fingers.

Lestrade bolted from his chair. The other two impassively listened to him retch into the sink.

Lestrade returned shakily to his seat and picked up the ice bag. "Your experiment is definitely ruined."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He took a sip of his tea, the cup shaking only a little as he brought it to his lips. He placed the cup carefully down on the table and put the tips of his fingers together in front of his face. "Are you quite finished?"

"Yes, thank you for your sympathy."

"It can hardly be your fault," Sherlock said, as if the conversation hadn't been interrupted, "as you had no way of knowing how dangerous Mrs Hudson's deceptively mild toddies can be. While I know from previous experience exactly how strong she makes them. They should come with warning labels."

" _You_ should have warned us about the stuff from under the sink," Lestrade said. "What was that, anyway?"

"An experiment in distillation," Sherlock said primly.

"An experiment in dist-- _moonshine_?" Lestrade frowned. "Not gin."

"No." Sherlock studied his cup.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Wait. Not _Poitin_?"

Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade groaned. "I'm going to be drunk for a _week_."

"A day or two. Don't exaggerate."

"You _made_ it? It's a wonder it didn't kill us outright."

"You'd have left a good-looking corpse," Sherlock said, with a flutter of his eyelashes.

Lestrade shuddered, unconsciously rubbing at his cheek. He realized what he was doing and looked daggers at Sherlock, who merely smiled and sipped his tea. Lestrade huffed and took refuge in the ice bag.

"No, it's my fault," John said quietly.

"Your fault? How?" Sherlock's eyes were sharp -- though very red -- over the tips of his fingers.

"I can't see how it's your fault," Lestrade said through his ice bag.

"Well," John explained, "Sherlock was about to call a cab, while you were talking to Anderson. But I pretended I had something I wanted to ask you, so we waited until you were free. Then I manoeuvred the conversation around so you offered us a lift, and I accepted before Sherlock could say no. Once in the car, I--" He stopped at the expressions on the faces of the other two. "Fell for it, didn't you?"

"Pretty slick piece of work," Lestrade said. "I suppose it's a good thing you're on our side."

"Yes, isn't it?" Sherlock said, staring at John thoughtfully.

"More tea?" John said brightly. He topped up their cups, and while Sherlock and Lestrade stared into them as if to scry the secrets of life, death, and hangover cures, John pulled his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown and calmly pressed a button.

Sherlock started and scrabbled at his pockets. A second later, Lestrade was doing the same. They brought out their phones and peered at them. John watched them, innocently drinking his tea.

"Good God," Lestrade breathed.

"How did you even--?" Sherlock turned his phone sideways. "Is that even physically possible?"

"Did you--" Lestrade glowered at him.

John smiled at him over the rim of his cup.

"Send these--"

"I don't remember a beach ball," Sherlock said. "Where did the beach ball come from?"

"To anyone--" Lestrade's voice was low, level, and lethal.

"Oh, a good one of Lestrade," Sherlock said, absorbed. "Very good."

" _Else_?" Lestrade gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Of course not," John said. "I'm on your side, remember?"

"Is this blackmail?" Lestrade burst out. "Because if you think you're going to use these, these, highly incriminating photos to force me against my will into some kind of kinky sexual slavery, you can think again! Because it's --" Sherlock thrust his phone in front of Lestrade's face. He gaped at it. "It's -- it's entirely possible it will work," he finished weakly. "Do I have that one?"

"Sexual slavery, Lestrade? Really?" John grinned.

Lestrade waved his hand and stuck his face back in the ice bag. His shoulders started to shake. John giggled, which made Lestrade chuckle into his ice bag, which made John laugh harder.

When they started playing footsie under the table, Sherlock sighed, leaned over the table, and deftly pocketed John's phone. If any more evidence of the goings-on in this flat were to surface, it wouldn't be his fault.

\--End --  



End file.
